Extrovert, Introvert, and the Art of Coming Home

In Sedona, after singing at the Pink Pony Club with a room full of strangers.

I’ve always thought of myself as an extrovert. For years, I thrived on the energy of performing, traveling, collaborating—just being around people. I chased momentum, always saying yes to the next thing. But the more I pay attention, the more I realize that’s only half the story. The truth is that the calm only settles in when everything stops. Yes, I need the movement, the noise, the connection—but I also need the quiet, the solitude, and the deep work that only happens when I pull away. Without that balance, I burn out.

This past month, I was in full extrovert mode—on the road, playing shows, meeting clients, reconnecting with musicians and friends in L.A. and San Diego. It was everything I love about music: collaboration, late-night hangs, packed rooms, and those spark-filled moments that only happen when everyone’s tuned into something bigger than themselves. I even released a book, Prayers Meant for Burning (shameless plug), during that time—another kind of offering, out in the world now.

At St Paul’s with Shairi Engle, writer and collaborator with The Old Globe and the La Jolla Playhouse, getting ready to kick off some new workshops.

I drove out for the Rock Goddess shows, where I reunited with some of the strongest vocalists I know. It’s wild to think this event started nearly a decade ago to spotlight powerhouse women in San Diego’s music scene. Now it brings us back from different corners of the country. Shamani and Roni flew in; I made the long drive west. The moment we started harmonizing, it felt like we’d never left.

While I was in town, I met up with clients and collaborators—some came to the gigs, and others I ran into by chance. I also reconnected with Voices of Our City Choir, the group whose songwriting workshop I helped build years ago. I showed up just in time to sit in on final planning sessions for their new album. Being invited back at the perfect moment reminded me that music isn’t just about the stage—it’s about continuity and the long threads that tie creative communities together.

Voices of Our City Choir rehearsal.

At St Paul’s with Shairi Engle, writer and collaborator with The Old Globe and the La Jolla Playhouse, getting ready to kick off some new I stayed with a friend in Laurel Canyon and soaked in the layered musical history of that place. The ghosts of the Doors and Joni Mitchell may be long gone, but the creative current still hums in the walls. I jammed with industry friends around fire pits, swapping instruments and dropping egos. This trip felt like there was spontaneous community singing at every turn—a sign I was living in my genius zone, as the geniuses say. (Note my loving snark.)

On the way home, I stopped in Sedona to sing with an old college pal and creative muse. We hadn’t performed together in years, but it felt easy, unforced. We had just written a tune together—one inspired by Sinéad O’Connor’s passing, which deeply affected many in my songwriting circle. I saw her perform it live for the first time, and now we’re preparing to dig deeper into it in the studio. Another seed planted for spring.

Back at Melody Ranch, I’m letting the quiet take hold. I used to resist this part. Silence made me uncomfortable. But I’ve come to see that this is where clarity lives. I drove a lot this past month. My fiancée would call and ask what I was up to. “What do I do these days?” I’d joke. “Drive in the rain.” “Bingo!” It rained almost every day while I was in SoCal—perfect for long, introspective drives.

After our Goddess show at Full Circle, a woman-owned venue in San Diego. What amazing women we get to collaborate with for this event. Owner Michelle Bailey, Francesca Valle, and Chloe Lou (SDMA nominee for Best Pop Artist).

Early in the trip, I called one of my “thinker” friends. She’s the kind of person who always has a thoughtful book to recommend, preferably over cheese. This time, it was Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain. The book helped me make sense of the quiet I crave, the fatigue I feel when I’m in constant motion, and even the old frustrations I’ve worked through. I’m most grounded when I honor both my outgoing energy and my need for retreat.Now that I’m home, I’m rebuilding. I’m tracking vocals for my album, wrapping up production projects I moved forward while traveling, and planting my first vegetable garden. I’ve been reading about composting, collecting heirloom seeds (do you know about seed libraries?! If not, go get your conscientious act of rebellion hat on), and preparing to turn my pool into a koi pond (and no, this isn’t just an ADHD harebrained scheme, folks) with a deck.

Out of the ego and into the earth. It’s a version of quiet. Smaller. More reflective. And in every way, restorative. Maybe even a kind of reciprocity—the kind that comes when we stop performing and start listening and tending to the sprouts again.

I’m not rushing. Spring is for planting. Growth will come.

WHAT KEPT ME COMPANY ON THE ROAD
More than 50 hours behind the wheel gave me time to think—and to listen. Here’s what stayed with me:

📖 Book:
Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, by Susan Cain
A thoughtful, eye-opening look at why introversion isn’t a flaw but a powerful creative force. It helped me reframe how I see myself and the way I work.

🎶 Songs:
“Worthy” by Mavis Staples
Soulful, honest, and grounded in strength. A reminder to hold your own value close.
“Surefire Love” by Shamini Jain
Healing, luminous, and layered with intention. A soft landing for the nervous system.
“Walk Up” by The Humidors
A funky, groove-heavy track that gave me rhythm to move through long stretches of silence.
“Labour” by Paris Paloma
Haunting and raw. It echoes the kind of truth that hits hardest when you’re in motion.

HOMEWORK
Think in seasons, not just schedules. If you’ve been in high-output mode—performing, producing, launching, pushing—what would it look like to build in a real retreat? Not just rest, but recalibration. Can you create a window (a weekend, a week, or even a month) to go inward, revisit what surfaced during the busy season, and let yourself steep?